The Red Syndrome (35 page)

I'd been through a similar experience before. During my Mossad
training we'd taken a course on how to survive interrogation by enemy
forces. We were told to case a Tel Aviv office building. Our instructors
called the police, posing as neighbors complaining that two strangers
were scrutinizing the nearby main office of a cash transportation company, taking notes. A squad car arrived, and we were arrested. After about
ten minutes of being roughed up, one team member shouted, "Leave me
alone, I'm not a robber, I'm from the Mossad, I'm here on assignment."
That didn't spare him or me from further abuse. We were brought to the
station and released without incident two hours later. Alex, our instructor,
admonished the cadet: If he couldn't withstand a rough police investigation, how would he endure an interrogation from a hostile organization?
The cadet was ousted from the academy the following day.

"For the last time, who do you work for?"

"Even if you keep hitting me, the answer won't change. I work for
Transcontinental Money Solutions; it's a company in the Seychelles. If
you're holding me for ransom, I'm sure they'd be willing to pay you, if the
demand isn't too high, because we are a small operation."

"Who owns this company?"

"There are two owners, Mr. Sunil Bharat and a group of investors from
Russia and Chechnya." I'd quickly decided on that line, hoping to telegraph the idea people you can't fool around with.

"Names," he shouted, "I need names."

"My boss is Sunil Bharat; I've never met the other owners. I don't have
any other names, I'm just a financial consultant, but I know they have
business interests in many parts of the world. You can call Sunil, I'm sure
he'd be happy to give you more details."

There was no comment from my interrogator. I asked, "Am I here
because I gave you bad advice? Are you one of my clients? If you're
unhappy, I'm sure we can work it out."

He ignored this, but his next question told me - as if I'd had any
doubts-that the people holding me were the "clients" I'd been seeking.

"How did you find out about the money transfers?"

Now he was talking. Perhaps I could maneuver this one as well. "There
was a security breach and I found it. I'm in the business of trying to prevent it from happening again."

This time the blow hit my chest so hard it felt as if all the air had been
sucked out of my lungs. I fell on the bed panting, then passed out. A
minute later, someone threw water on my face. It was unpleasantly cold,
though I was sweating profusely.

"Don't give me smart-ass answers," the man said when I came to.
"When I ask a question, you answer it immediately and precisely. Do you
understand that?"

Of course I understood. I nodded. The last blow was pulverizing.

"Now answer my question: How did you find out about the transfers?"

"I told you: security breaches. I've lived in the Seychelles long enough
to know people in the banking industry and the regulatory agency. For
the right price you can find anything you want. I obtain information and
contact people, that's all."

He turned from me and cried Falaka" to someone in the room. Falaka
was the most common corporal punishment in Iran. A man held a
bamboo-like wooden stick and whacked my soles while someone else
held my feet in place. The pain was so severe that I gasped and dropped my head to my chest. I didn't know how much I could take. But the more
a body part suffers torture, the more tolerable it becomes. The seventh
and eighth Falaka were not as painful as the first and second. Electric
shock, our Mossad trainers had warned us, had the opposite effect: Each
jolt was more painful than the last.

"I ask again: How did you connect Mr. Zhukov to the transfers?"

Now it was Mr. Zhukov. I didn't know what value to assign this information, but for lack of anything else to do, I filed it away.

I repeated the story: the endorsed checks deposited by Dimitrov, and
the way in which I'd obtained copies. Apparently he was satisfied with my
answer, because no additional beating followed. "Dimitrov endorsed the
checks but you called Mr. Zhukov?"

"I called and spoke with Dimitrov first, but as I said, it concerned Sling
and Dewey. He said it was Mr. Zhukov's company-so talk to Zhukov."

"You're lying; Mr. Dimitrov isn't listed in the phone book."

"I said I called the telephone number that was connected to the
address. Dimitrov answered."

"How were you going to prevent the problem from recurring?"

"I don't know yet. You can't prevent corruption in banking institutions
beyond your reach. I suggested they hire me as a financial consultant. I've
been in the asset-protection business for several years and I know the
industry inside and out. And so far, I've have had no complaints, only
compliments."

"Listen to me," he said. He was so close, I could smell the acrid tang of
tobacco and sour body odor. "Enough with your bullshit. We know you
work for the Americans, and Mr. Henderson is your controller." He was
wrong there, but I wasn't about to correct him. My heart rate accelerated
and I felt the blood rush from my head. I was dizzy and my vision was
blurred. But I did my best to remain calm. I should have expected this.
I'd been duped into believing that the man who'd called my room earlier
was delivering a message from Eric. So they knew about my connection
to Eric. There was no point in denying it.

"Mr. Henderson? Yes, he's a potential client. I think you're right, I think
he's American. We agreed to meet in Marseilles; he was highly interested in my services. He said that he's involved in a messy divorce and needs to
hide his fortune. He told me that his wife had hired detectives to follow
him wherever he went, so he needed to conceal our meetings."

Another Falaka; another "Bullshit!"

I held on, after catching my breath. "So was his story a ploy? Does he
actually work for you? You didn't have to beat me so hard to acquire my
services; an appointment would have done that."

I don't think he liked my answer because the next Falaka sent electric
vibrations through me. The interrogation continued for several more
hours. They asked the same questions again and again, and I gave them
the same answers, again and again, and received the same beating, again
and again. I wondered how long I could tolerate the torture before it
caused permanent health problems.

I tried to disassociate myself from the surroundings. Physically, I
couldn't escape, but mentally I was far away. I remembered the mild beatings we'd endured during Mossad training; we'd found them too harsh.
The irony didn't escape me now.

You will be subjected to various degrees of coercive interrogation techniques,
most likely coupled with torture, I remembered Alex saying. Coercive interrogation aims to reverse the subject's natural resistance. A good interrogator
matches the coercive technique to the subject's personality. Individuals react differently. But if you analyze the techniques you'll see that they always include the
three important Dc. debility, dependency, and dread.

The first technique of interrogation would be to ask you straightforward
questions. Since any subject's greatest fear is the unknown, they don't have to
apply physical force; just the thought of it makes people sing.

But once they realize you're a professional, the next technique is applied.-playing
on your love for your family or even Israel, or your hatred for a rival group. Then
they'll try to boost your ego to make you talk. If that doesn't work, they'll insult and
degrade you. They'll try to invoke feelings of futility and abandonment-by your
friends, family, and country. They'll show you that they already know all the
answers to the questions they're asking, and that their only purpose is to catch you
lying. They'll fire questions in rapid succession without giving you the opportunity
to answer; they'll ask you the same question again and again around the clock while interrogators are constantly being replaced. They'll make you lose track of
time. They'll deprive you ofsleep; they'llstare at you to frighten you. They'll manipulate your environment, changing the conditions ofyour detention to make you feel
too hot or cold. They'll try to convince you that, in fact, they're not the enemy but
allies. They'll isolate you from any human contact or sound. That's the worst torture. Trust me, most people exposed to coercive interrogation will talk, and usually
they reveal information that they might not have revealed otherwise.

My interrogator's voice brought me back. I hoped what I remembered
of my Mossad training would serve to steel my nerve, although I knew
that nobody can withstand long-term torture-hours, maybe a few days.
After that you are becoming a nonperson who'll never fully recover.

"Why did you move out of the Promenade?"

"I wanted to impress Mr. Henderson. Having him meet me in a fivestar hotel would show him I was a successful businessman and justify my
high fees."

My interrogator moved his head toward me. He reeked. He was intimidating, making Zhukov's gorillas look like puppies-and they at least
took showers and used cologne. He had a nasty expression on his face. He
was unshaven, not the type you'd be happy to associate yourself with.
Mossad training or not, this was the real thing and it looked bad. He said
something to the man standing next to him. I felt another needle sting
my arm and I blacked out.

When I woke up, I was pitching, then rolling, back and forth, hitting a
wall, nearly falling off the edge of the bed I was on. My mouth was dry,
my body aching. A piercing headache was tearing apart my forehead from
the inside out. My soles burned. I tried to open my eyes but couldn't see
anything: that stinking jute sack again! My hands were cuffed. I rolled
over; my entire surroundings were moving. I inhaled deeply, but my ribs
were so tender and aching that I had to stop breathing halfway through.
The room was pitching again. I tried to concentrate, to remember what
had happened. I pitched over again and nearly fell off the bed, but the
chains restrained me. Was this an earthquake? Then I smelled the familiar
distinctive scent of the Mediterranean Sea mixed with the unmistakable scent of heavy-machine oil. I heard an engine's monotonous roaring and
clanking. I was on a boat.

My cell was probably belowdeck, because the engine's roar was so close
and loud. Other than lie there, there was nothing I could do. I tried to
salivate, moisten my parched mouth, but that helped for only a moment.
"Hello?" I shouted, "Can anyone hear me? Hello?"

There was no answer. I put my mind into gear, trying to remember
what had happened. I resurrected the chain of events that had brought
me here: the trap, the abduction, the interrogation. There was no place for
self-pity now. I needed to make a plan. The first piece of good news was
that I was still alive. Whatever value I had to my captors, it was as a
person with a pulse, not as a cadaver. But I wouldn't bet money on it.

I had to quickly create a legend that would be convincing. To do that,
I needed to know how much my captors knew and whether there'd been
cover erosion. Unless there'd been a security breach within the CIA, the
FBI, or the multi-agency task force, there was a possibility, albeit remote,
that the first time Zhukov and his comrades heard the name Neil
McMillan was when I called them five days ago ... or was it longer than
that? I didn't know how long I'd been out of commission. If that was the
case, then the only information they could possibly have on me had to
have been unearthed only after I had called Zhukov.

I hadn't done anything suspicious since then, other than calling the
clinic, meeting Eric at the safe apartment, and meeting Zhukov in my
room. But the clinic was an unknown: If these people, whoever they were,
had prior knowledge that the clinic was just a front, then anyone coming
there was exposed and contaminated. The next soft area was the presence
of Eric, Brian, and Martin in the clinic and in my hotel. If they were
compromised, anyone in contact with them was contaminated and compromised as well. Ditto for the safe apartment. I had no knowledge
whether it was Eric's first or tenth visit to the clinic or to the safe apartment. I'd heard that after his service as CIA station chief in Munich he'd
been reassigned to another location, but I hadn't known, or cared, what
his new position had been, or where. I regretted letting my personal aversion to him impede my professional diligence.

If I knew, for example, that he lived in London and had come to
Marseilles only to instruct me, then it would reduce, but not eliminate,
the chance that I was involved in whatever other clandestine work Eric
was doing. I wondered if they'd captured Eric as well; after all, they'd
mentioned his name as my controller. That would have an immediate
impact on me and my story, not to mention the devastating consequences
if Eric were forced to talk.

This mental exercise was speculative and leading me nowhere, but I
had to continue with it. It distracted me from my physical pain, from
wondering whether I was going to live or die. My horizon was narrow,
particularly with a stinking hood over my head. I had no doubt that my
captors were Arabs, although I didn't understand all the dialects. I had no
proof, but I guessed that I was in the hands of either the Slaves of Allah
or their supporters.

My interrogation had been brutal and unprofessional, with my interrogator substituting sheer force for clever investigatory methods. And
he'd made a mistake by revealing that he knew about Zhukov and
Dimitrov, thereby placing himself squarely within the framework of my
own case. A professional interrogator would never give his subject any
information, certainly not before his subject starts talking. Leaving the
subject in the dark is the best policy because it undermines his confidence. My interrogator was not clever; maybe he was even stupid. But the
reality was, I was the prisoner, and he was the interrogator. Intellectual
superiority isn't always helpful when you're chained and your captor holds
the key and the whip.